“Yah,” Bear commented in a distinctly sardonic tone.
Max looked at the little cat and sighed. “Bear, I couldn't have said it better myself.”
The lobby was nearly deserted when Morgan crossed it to get to the stairs, but she met Leo Cassady about halfway up. The lean and handsome collector smiled as soon as he saw her and stopped when they reached the same tread.
“Hello, Morgan. I hear I unintentionally played matchmaker at my party last Saturday.”
She felt a little jolt at the reminder that it had been barely a week since she officially met Alex Brandon, but she was able to smile at Leo. “Let's just say I have a feeling my life will never be the same again.”
“And it's all my fault?”
“Well, it was your party, Leo. But . . . we would have met anyway, I imagine. Collectors have been drawn to the exhibit in droves.”
Somewhat wryly, he said, “Yes, I can't seem to stay away from it myself. Is Alex here now?”
“He's around somewhere,” Morgan replied casually. “Max too.”
“I talked to Max upstairs, but I didn't see Alex. Tell him I said hello, will you?”
“Sure. See you later.”
Morgan continued up the stairs as he continued down, and when she was at the top, she paused to look back and watch Leo's elegant figure strolling through the lobby to the front doors. Even his lazy saunter couldn't quite hide the kind of ease and grace that came from muscles under perfect control, like those of a dancer or an athlete.
What had Quinn said?
If you came face-to-face with a man you knew was Nightshade
. . .
Nightshade
was
someone she knew. Probably someone she knew well or at least saw on a regular basis, or else Quinn might have told her who he was. Could it be Leo?
She gripped the massive bannister and looked rather blindly down into the lobby, her thoughts whirling, feeling suddenly very cold. Leo? He was certainly a collector, and though he often made light of it, he had himself termed his hunger for rare and beautiful things an obsession. He had traveled all over the world gathering them, paying incredible amounts to own what no other man could. . . .
Leo . . . Nightshade?
Morgan didn't want to believe it. She didn't even want to consider it possible. Nightshade had killed people—including a young woman of twenty-two whom Alex Brandon had loved like a sister. Nightshade had shot Alex—Quinn.
Nightshade had used chloroform on her.
As hard as she tried to remember, Morgan couldn't recall any identifying characteristic of the man who had held her in an iron grasp and rendered her unconscious. He'd been taller than her, but she wasn't sure how much taller. Strong. Quick. She could remember no scent except the chloroform, and no sound except those made by her own struggles.
Could Leo chloroform a young woman he knew well and the next day meet her with a pleasant smile?
Quinn had said something once about having the ability to lie convincingly under stress. He'd said it took a certain kind of nerve—or a devious nature. Did Leo also possess that brand of cunning?
She couldn't know, not for sure. With a faint shiver, Morgan turned and slowly made her way toward the
Mysteries Past
exhibit, where she expected to find Quinn. She wondered if he would answer with the truth if she asked him whether Leo was Nightshade. She wondered if she could even ask.
When he saw her standing at one of the display cases in the exhibit, Quinn paused for a moment and just looked at Morgan. He was vaguely aware that closing time had been announced and that it would no doubt be wise for him to get out of the museum with all speed and without encountering Max again, but he couldn't make himself hurry.
What was she thinking? Lovely face solemn, great golden eyes intent, she stood with her hands loosely clasped together before her and gazed at the Bolling diamond. She was dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, her glorious hair spilling down her back like black fire, and just looking at her made his heart beat faster.
He wondered if she knew what she did to him. She'd be aware of the physical response, certainly; he could hardly conceal his desire for her, and so he hadn't tried. But did she know the enormity of it? Did she have any idea that he wanted her, needed her, far past the point of reason?
His life, especially in recent years, had made him adept at hiding or disguising his feelings, but he wasn't sure he had been able to hide how he felt about her. Jared certainly knew, after last night. Max knew, although he hadn't said anything about it since they had talked the night Quinn was shot.
But did Morgan know?
He moved up behind her, instinctively cat-footed because he so often had to be, but she didn't jump when his arms slipped around her. She had known it was him.
“There's a plaque,” she said almost idly, relaxing against him. “It tells the story of the Bolling—though not as interestingly as you did.”
“Thank you, sweet.” He nuzzled her hair aside and kissed the side of her neck. Her skin was particularly soft there, and he loved the way it felt under his lips.
“Mmmm. The point is, I didn't even read it. I mean, I helped put the plaques in place for all the pieces, and I didn't even bother to read them.”
“You were busy with other aspects of the exhibit,” he reminded her, placing another kiss just beneath her ear. Soft flesh . . . bruised by a cruel grip. That bruise still filled him with a hot, almost murderous fury—he had added it to the tally of Nightshade's many crimes—and he brushed his lips very gently over the small area of discolored flesh.
Morgan made another faint sound, then turned in his arms to gaze up at him, her hands lifting to rest on his chest. She was smiling, but her golden eyes were heavy-lidded in the look of sensual awareness he loved. And her voice was a little husky when she said, “We both know how many security cameras are trained on us right now. I don't know about you, but I'd rather not entertain the guards.”
Quinn kissed her very lightly. “No, I suppose not.” He stepped back just a little but caught her hand in his and held it firmly. “You do realize the museum's closing?”
She nodded, but sent the brilliant yellow glow of the Bolling a last glance. As they started strolling toward the doorway, she said, “Why would any thief want it? I mean, why would anyone in their right mind want to steal something with the history of the Bolling?”
“Aside from its rather astonishing value, total egotism,” Quinn replied succinctly. “Every one of the thieves who tried in the past believed they'd be the one to triumph.”
“And now? Does Nightshade believe in curses?”
Quinn answered that more slowly. “Nightshade believes he must own what would destroy other men, and he believes he can. That he's somehow immune to the danger. He believes it's his right,
his . . . destiny . . . to possess priceless beauty.”
Morgan looked up at him. “What do you believe?”
He shrugged. “I believe he's just trying to fill the emptiness inside him, Morgana. He's a hollow man, emptied out of everything that matters.” Aware of her searching gaze, Quinn suddenly felt slightly self-conscious. In a much lighter tone, he added, “Psychology 101.”
Morgan didn't respond to that. Instead, amusing him yet again with her singular determination to get all her questions answered (it reared its head at the most unlikely moments, he'd discovered), she said, “I checked the plaque for the Talisman emerald a little while ago. Do you—I mean, does
Quinn
—want it because it's supposed to have belonged to Merlin?”
“Well, a hundred and fifty carats of emerald are worth quite a lot no matter who they once belonged to.”
“You know what I mean.”
He knew. “Actually, Quinn
has
earned a bit of a reputation for . . . um . . . taking items with odd or supernatural backgrounds. Not all the time, mind you, just here and there, often enough to make interest in them obvious. And it is something Nightshade was aware of. He found it quite easy to believe that Quinn would have come all this way to try to get his hands on that little bangle.”
“And avoid the Bolling?”
“I told him I was superstitious and extremely wary of curses. I'm reasonably sure he believed me.”
Leaving the exhibit behind, they walked in silence to the stairs and began descending. Halfway down, Morgan spoke again in a voice that was just a bit unsteady.
“Alex, if I wanted to guess who Nightshade is—”
“Don't, Morgana.” He kept his own voice even, but his fingers tightened almost unconsciously around hers. “Your knowing who he is wouldn't help—and could hurt. There's no reason for you to know until you have to. Trust me.”
Morgan glanced up at him as they reached the lobby, and a little laugh escaped her. “We've already established that I don't really have a choice about that.” Then, before he could respond, she was going on in the same casual tone. “You're free until around midnight, aren't you?”
“More or less,” he agreed. “I thought we could get something to eat and then go back to your place.”
“Sounds good to me.”
After that their conversation steered clear of the exhibit and Nightshade and other troubling matters, and Quinn was glad. He knew he should have kept his attention focused on those matters, troubling or not, but all his concentration seemed taken up by her. She had fascinated him from the first night they'd met, and their subsequent, rather intense encounters had only deepened and increased that fascination.
He thought she was magnificent. Not just in her physical beauty, although that could certainly cause a marble statue with no more than the vague form of a man to leave its base and trail along wistfully behind her. No, what Morgan had was much more than mere beauty. She was unusually vibrant, her inner spirit so bright and strong it shone from her golden eyes and seemed almost to illuminate her flawless skin. Her voice was quick and musical, the tone just throaty enough to make every word a caress. And her mind . . . her mind.
Intelligence was only a part of it, though she certainly had plenty of that. She had a sense of humor that was sometimes ironic or offbeat and always sharp. A keen perception. More sensitivity
and
sentimentality than she wanted to reveal. And she possessed a deep reserve despite her talkative disposition and charm.
Quinn thought she had been profoundly hurt in her life—and not only by the fiancé too unspeakably stupid to look past her surface shine to the pure gold underneath. She had been taken at face value too often in her life, he thought, and that had taught her to guard her vulnerable heart.
Which made it all the more remarkable that she could have fallen in love with him. He still couldn't quite believe it. A part of him even considered that if they spent enough time together, she would eventually decide she'd been mistaken in what she felt. But a deeper part of him saw and recognized a luminous truth in her eyes.
She loved him.
And it was going to cost her.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
L
ate on Saturday evening, Quinn pulled himself
reluctantly from the warmth of Morgan's bed to get dressed. It was nearly eleven, and he had to return to his hotel briefly before he could begin his night as Quinn. They had spent most of the evening in bed, and though he hadn't gotten very much sleep during the past few days, he felt peculiarly energized.
Morgan banked pillows behind her and absently drew the sheet up over her naked breasts as she watched him, and in the lamplight her eyes seemed bottomless. For the first time since they had discussed it earlier in the day, she brought up the subject of Nightshade, her voice calm but deliberate.
“Have you thought of a reason why I would have expected Alex Brandon to be on a rooftop at midnight?”
“Only one,” he confessed, sitting on the side of the bed to pull his boots on. “If Alex had told you that's where he'd be—not, of course, expecting you to come calling.”
Morgan frowned, then realized. “You were dressed as Quinn. All-black cat-burglar attire. Which you wouldn't have wanted me to see if I didn't know you were Quinn.”
“That is a bit of a problem in explaining things, yes.”
She watched him for a moment, still frowning, then said, “Well, you can always fall back on the unpredictability of women. You tell me you're going to be up there—stargazing, or just checking out the roof of a building you're interested in buying or leasing—”
“In the middle of the night?”
“You had a busy day, and it was the only time available.” When he stared at her with lifted brows, she laughed and said, “Most men think that a woman in love will believe anything, so I'm sure you can make it sound convincing. Or tell him I
wasn't
convinced, that I suspected another woman or something, and thank him very much for knocking me out before I could see you in your Quinn costume.”
“That's not bad,” he noted. “Especially since I plan to get him on the defensive immediately.”
Morgan considered that for a moment. “Because
he
shouldn't have been on that fire escape?”
“Right. And with chloroform, no less. There I was, perched on that roof and studying the museum while I planned a way in for
him,
and he came cat-footing along to either check up on me or else do something a bit more permanent. I'd say he demonstrated a distressing lack of trust in his partner, to say the very least. I'm going to be quite indignant about that, I think. So indignant, in fact, that I'm not at all sure I want to share with him the rather vital bit of information I got from you, sweet.”
“Ah, I wondered if we were going to get back to that.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “If you expect to sidetrack him that way, it'd better be good. Since I don't know much about the security setup for the exhibit
or
the museum, what could I possibly have told you?”
He leaned over to kiss her, lingering not because he was avoiding the answer to her question, but simply because kissing her had become as necessary to him as breathing. When he finally, and very reluctantly, ended the kiss, he had to fight an overwhelming urge to yank his clothes off and crawl back under the covers with her—and that sleepy, sensual expression in her eyes didn't do much to shore up his willpower.
Quinn cleared his throat, but his voice emerged hoarsely even then. “Why, you told me something only a handful of people know, sweet. You told me that Max is planning to break up his collection—and donate it to various museums—even before the exhibit is officially ended.”
She was startled for a moment, but then nodded slowly. “I see. Once the collection is scattered all over the country—even the world—he wouldn't have much hope of getting his hands on many of the pieces.”
“Exactly. With a little luck, the news will at least give him something to think about. And, if I'm reading him right, it might just cause him to move a bit faster than he planned.”
Morgan nodded again, but then bit her bottom lip as she gazed at him. “Alex, be careful. Nightshade moving faster sounds like a deadly proposition.”
He kissed her again, managing to keep it light this time. “Don't worry, sweetheart, I can take care of myself. Besides that, I told you I always land on my feet.”
Quinn didn't want to leave her, but at the same time he was anxious to confront the man known as Nightshade and divert his attention from Morgan; she wouldn't be safe until those greedy eyes were fixed once more on the Bannister collection.
It was that thought that enabled him to get up off the bed and turn away, but he had to pause in the doorway of the bedroom and look back at her. Unable to help himself, he said, “I'll be looking for a place to rest my weary head around dawn. Do you have any suggestions?”
She smiled slowly, and that luminous truth was in her eyes. “I believe the lock on the front door is easy to pick. And then there's the window; you didn't have any trouble with it either. It's your choice. I'll be here.”
Given that enticement, Quinn knew he wouldn't have any trouble getting back here. With Morgan waiting for him, the only question was whether he could endure the long hours until dawn.
“Any problems?” Quinn asked Jared lightly when he joined him just a few minutes after midnight.
“None that I saw.”
Since they had to assume that Nightshade had spotted the earlier vantage point, Jared and Quinn had agreed—in a brief phone conversation much earlier in the day—to move to a new position and another building. So they met now in a fourth-floor office overlooking the museum, one of several currently unoccupied spaces they had rented before the exhibit opened.
Keeping his voice casual in what he knew was a vain attempt to avoid a confrontation with Jared, Quinn said, “Okay, then. You'd better go get some sleep while you can.”
“Not so fast.” Jared perched on a huge old slate-topped desk that had been left in the office by the previous occupants, the position indicating that he wasn't going anywhere for the moment. The room was very dim, but there was enough light to make his expression obvious. Grim.
Quinn leaned against the window frame and peered through venetian blinds at the museum across the street. Well lighted on all sides, the building appeared utterly peaceful. No help there, he thought ruefully, almost wishing for a few armed thugs to storm the place.
“Alex.”
“Yeah?” He looked at his brother, still casual.
“I backed you in this from the beginning.” Jared's voice was very deliberate. “I bent some laws and broke quite a few rules, because I knew what it meant to you to put Nightshade behind bars. So far, I don't regret that.”
“I'm glad,” Quinn murmured.
“Wait. I let you lie to Max; I didn't like it, but your reasons made sense. I let you lie to Wolfe, even though I knew damned well it probably meant he'd take both our heads off when he found out the truth. But I will be
damned,
little brother, if I'll let you lie to me.”
Quinn didn't move or speak. Familiar with the sound of danger, he heard it in Jared's voice. And though he was an inch taller than his brother, a fraction wider across the shoulders, and arguably more powerful, there was no one in the world that he was less inclined to take on than Jared.
Especially when he knew himself to be in the wrong.
“I want the truth, Alex.”
“All right,” Quinn said quietly. “I would have told you anyway. Maybe not tonight, but . . . soon.”
Jared drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Tell me.”
So Quinn told him.
Almost everything.
Still balancing on that high wire, Quinn's second meeting of the night took place in a private home far from the museum, and as he'd discussed with Morgan, he didn't give Nightshade the opportunity to ask awkward questions.
“What the hell do you mean by shadowing me?” he demanded, stripping off his mask.
“Shadowing you? What are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about your little stunt on that fire escape last night. What would have happened if Morgan hadn't got in your way, you want to tell me that? Was the chloroform meant for me, or do you make it a habit to carry the stuff around? Or was it Morgan you were after?”
His host moved slowly to a chair by the fireplace and sat down. “Alex, I didn't go out last night. At all.”
Quinn recognized the truth when he heard it. Part of him was relieved—and part of him went even colder. He sat down across from his host and spoke slowly, even though his mind was working at top speed. “And you didn't kill that woman the police are calling Jane Doe. So we have another player.”
“It appears so. What was Morgan doing on a fire escape?”
“Looking for me. For Alex.”
“And she expected to find you on a rooftop?”
“I didn't say I was on the roof. I'd told her I was meeting a realtor late to look at a building I was considering as an investment. I never meant to be specific about which building, but I must have been. Apparently, she decided to surprise me with a visit. Either that, or . . .”
“Or she suspected you might be meeting someone else?”
“I wouldn't have pegged her as the jealous type,” Quinn mused, then shrugged. “In any case, being Morgan, when she found the front doors locked she tried the fire escape.” Quinn felt fairly safe in creating a plausible tale, and it was certainly better than the truth.
“And someone used chloroform on her. An interesting choice, to not simply kill her. Something you'd be more likely to do than I.”
Gambling as he often did, Quinn said, “It occurred to me that you might have tried to grab Morgan to have an extra lever against me.”
“Alex, I'm surprised at you. Such a lack of trust.”
Ignoring that comment, Quinn added, “Still a possibility if we do have another player in the game. But whoever it was couldn't have known Morgan would be there. Unless he followed her.”
“Or followed you.”
“He didn't follow me.”
Nightshade accepted that. “Where is Morgan now?”
“Safe. Being watched. As she'll continue to be watched until this is over.”
Smiling faintly, Nightshade said, “Is that a warning, Alex?”
“If you like.” Quinn held his host's gaze steadily. “No one is going to hurt Morgan. No one is going to use her against me.”
“Noted.” Nightshade shrugged. “At the moment, I'm far more interested in who this new player is and whether he's a threat to our plans. It sounds at the very least as if he has your number, that he knows Morgan is your weakness.”
Quinn could have argued with the choice of words, but instead said only, “The murder of Jane Doe points straight at the museum. They even found the murder weapon in the basement, rather . . . creatively placed.”
“So whoever it is got inside the museum without tripping any alarms.”
“And spent a considerable amount of time in there. Weeks ago. Before the new security went on-line. Since then, no one has breached the system.”
“You're sure of that?”
“Positive.”
“And you have no idea who this new player might be.”
Quinn shook his head. “Neither do the police, if that's any comfort.”
“It isn't.”
“You have more resources in this city than I do. Tap them. Find out what's going on.”
“We have a timetable. You do remember that, don't you?”
“I do. And everything will be in place by Thursday night. If you choose to go ahead, that is.”
“Of course I choose to go ahead. I can't take the chance that this . . . other player . . . can get in ahead of us.”
“It's a risk. To proceed without knowing who's out there. But there's another risk.” Quinn saw no reason why he shouldn't go ahead and stoke the fire.
“Which is?”
“Something Morgan told me. Max is planning to break up the collection, donate it to various museums around the world. He says the time for any one man or one family to have such treasures is long past.”
“He would,” Nightshade commented grimly.
“Yeah, definitely in character. He plans to make the announcement at the close of
Mysteries Past,
but he'll be contacting the other museums well before then to officially donate the pieces.”
“I wondered why he was willing to exhibit the collection now, after all these years. One final hurrah. One last opportunity to see all of it together in one place.”
Quinn shrugged.
“So you got this from Morgan?”
“Pillow talk. She couldn't know the information was particularly important.”
Rather than comment on that, Nightshade said, “So this is the last real chance to target the entire Bannister collection at once.”
“Looks like.”
Nightshade eyed him. “You don't sound too concerned.”
“All I want is the Talisman emerald, remember? Sending it to another museum could make it easier for me.”
“But not for me.” His lips tightened. “I don't like being rushed. But I won't take the chance of the collection being put beyond my reach. We move Thursday, on schedule.”
“Despite the risk of not knowing who this other player is?”
“Despite that. The Bannister collection is worth the risk. Some things are worth any risk. You believe that, don't you, Alex?”
“Yes,” Quinn replied. “Yes, I do.”
During the next few days, Morgan was uncharacteristically tranquil—particularly since she woke up each morning with a passionate cat burglar in her bed. Not that she was calm
then,
because her need for Quinn seemed only to grow stronger with every day that passed, but when she reluctantly left him asleep in her bed and went to the museum later each morning, she wrapped serenity around her like a shell.
If any of the others realized that behind her smile and thoughtful eyes a very sharp and observant mind was working, no one said anything about it. Storm teased her about Alex's effect on her, and both Max and Wolfe made rather surprised comments about her newfound composure and the lack of chatter around the museum, but if Alex thought there was anything different about her he hadn't mentioned it.
That was fine with Morgan. She didn't try to hide the fact that she was in love with Alex; she merely remained calm about it. Almost fatalistic, in fact. What would be, would be.